Dear Diary,
The bell never rings when I want it to.
Some days it rings too early, just as I'm finally becoming remotely interested in the drawling monotone of my teachers. Most days though, it rings too late, time stretching as long as Jasmine's legs when she's doing the splits, leaving me doodling in the back page of my handwriting book.
Today, it's shrill ring pierced the bubble of my consciousness just as I immersed myself in the 23rd page of our newest conquest: Matilda by Roald Dahl.
I've watched the movie "Matilda" on NETFLIX, but I can still never seem to wrap my head around her sheer unforced desire to learn!? If my parents weren't so hell-bent on my education I would happily join Lavender brown and all the other 'average-minded' kids. Sure learning is great and all, but having fun is so much more important, isn't it?
As I pondered over my unfortunate parental-pairing, I grabbed my bag with practised precision and stalked towards the kiss-and-ride pick up area. Mrs Mathew's breathy voice heralded the coming of cars as we all plonked down onto the grass.
The pick-up station ran with the efficiency of an electrical circuit. Each car followed the circular road around the fruit-cake-like bricks of the chapel, like electricity flowing through the wires in the computer lab.
Jasmine chattered amicably next to me, her shiny black pigtails jiggling as she talked. She doesn't say much and yet each sentence dragged on for minutes at a time. She was now pointing expectantly at her bag, a black thing with a motley assortment of butterflies splattered all over it. It didn't take me long to realise the eye-sore was new.
"It's so pretty Jas!" I remarked, an undertone of sarcasm evident in my voice though she was either oblivious to it or chose to ignore it. Quite frankly, I didn't care which.
My own Smiggle bag stared up at me, it's purple and teal hues complementing the keyrings haphazardly strewn over it. I was glad it hadn't lost its signature berry smell, though I doubt my mum is.
She's a bit of a character - my mother. Her jet black hair falls straight down like a ruler, eyes two pools of darkness. The only thing that separates her from Professor Snape in Harry Potter, is the small smile that tugs on her lips when she's thinking of something funny. Thank God for that, or else I would get them mixed up!
Speaking of Mum, I should probably wrap up now. She's giving me one of her Snape glares and I don't know what for... Bye for now!
YOU ARE READING
In The Eyes Of a Child
Teen FictionFollow a primary school student as she navigates the drama of year 4, tests of year 5 and farewells of year 6. Everything in this story is authentic and most of it is sourced from my own primary school diaries. PLEASE LEAVE VOTES AND COMMENTS AND SH...
